


Final Fugue

by RaeWhit



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Gen, surprise character - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-13
Updated: 2010-03-13
Packaged: 2017-10-07 22:39:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/69978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RaeWhit/pseuds/RaeWhit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Albus Dumbledore dead, you make the final decision that life is unbearable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Final Fugue

**Author's Note:**

> The Harry Potter world and characters are the sole property of JK Rowling, Scholastic, Bloomsbury, and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros, Inc. I make no money from writing fanfiction. It is my own private obsession.
> 
> A/N: This fic was written for the Sycophant Hex Spring Faire King/Queen for a Day challenge. Surprise canon character. It was written well before the release of HBP, so was canon-compliant at the time.

** _ FINAL FUGUE_ **

 

Your eyes open slowly, taking time to adjust to the light streaming in through the window. You've slept longer than usual, the events of the past two days having taken their toll, both physically and emotionally. You must be feeling your age today, as normally a good night's sleep would afford some measure of recovery. But today the grief and exhaustion weigh in your chest like a stone, worse than yesterday. And that does not bode well, for by the end of _that_ day, life had become almost unbearable.

Knowing it's impossible to delay the inevitable, you rouse yourself, and go through the motions of a morning routine. Breakfast is a wash—even if you could force yourself to eat, it probably wouldn't stay down.

It's not just because Albus Dumbledore is dead. It's because his death has reawakened in you an ongoing dilemma that most of the time you manage to keep well below the surface of everyday clutter.

His death, it seems, has brought this temptation to the forefront again, and suddenly, sitting in front of this cold breakfast, your mind is made up. How fitting that his slipping into the hereafter would provide the long sought-after catalyst that would transform indecision into sudden certitude. Even in death he has worked his magic.

Pushing away from the unappetizing spread, you sigh in relief as serenity replaces the turmoil within.

Today, by your own choice and hand, _you are going to die_.

It is not just grief that prompts this decision, although that is the case with many suicides that come on the heels of another death. It's the bone-numbing weariness, the on-going struggle to live out of sameness of day after day. Dumbledore had been what kept you here for far too long. The old man had had that uncanny ability to know exactly where your demons lay, and precisely the word needed to send them back into the netherworld from which they occasionally escaped.

Knowing that his time was near, the Headmaster, your best friend and confidant for many years, had tried to prepare you and the others he considered his friends. No amount of preparation, however, is able diminish the pain and the emptiness of his being suddenly…irretrievably…gone.

It is all the more painful that the grief and emptiness seem trivialized by the fact that the nature and depth of your relationship was known to only a few others. You watched yesterday as the rest of the staff comforted each other with stories and remembrances. No one looked to _you_ for a word of eulogy. They would not think to find anything of interest there. But you listened to them all, even though none of what was related was new: he had confided everything to you, after all.

A few in the gathering, though, were sensitive to the pain they knew you would be feeling. These few, now and then during the course of the meeting, made a point of catching your eye and giving a nod in commiseration. It was appreciated more that they could ever imagine, for there to be some acknowledgment that you too felt suddenly set adrift in a sea of emotion and loss.

The first had been Severus. There is a begrudging respect between the two of you that has grown over the years. On that night, so many years ago, when he first fled to the Headmaster for refuge, you arrived at the end of the meeting, just in time to see the sodden mess of the young man being escorted out to the gates, the wards not inclined to allow one of his ilk to pass in either direction.

Albus had related to you the events of the evening, still shaken by the ordeal, telling the tale over a glass of sherry. The young Death Eater had thought the old man would just welcome him with open arms, but instead had had to surrender not only his pride and his past, but also his dignity and his future. After requiring him to first relinquish his wand, Dumbledore had made the desperate man recite, point by point, every detail of his service to the Dark Lord. And with each revelation, Severus had been informed of the consequences, in reality, of his deed: the dead, the wounded, the widowed, the orphaned, the suicides, and the devastation. Merciless, the Headmaster had forced him to face the wreckage for which he was responsible. Halfway through the recitation, the man had broken, and had fallen to his knees, sobbing in bitterness and remorse. Even then the old man had remained relentless, until every detail had been laid out. In the end, though, the merciful arms of Albus Dumbledore had reached out and pulled the man in, offering him both a future and a friend.

How many times had you been witness to the greatness of the old man's heart? You disagreed with him that night when he told you how he planned to redeem the young Death Eater. You warned him that too much was at stake to trust such a turncoat. You insisted that it would end badly if he did, but he persisted nonetheless, and the years have proven him correct.

And strangely enough, _this one_, to whom you so vehemently objected in the beginning, is now one of the few inhabitants of the castle that you would name as friend. Despite his considerable cares and worries, he has never failed to speak and offer a kind word when you meet. Perhaps it is because he remembers the depths from which he was pulled. And unspoken between the two of you, is that night long ago when he returned from a summoning, injured beyond belief. With the old man away, you were the only other who knew his true status, so you did what was necessary so that he would not succumb to his injuries. You do not speak of it now, but the undercurrent of gratitude hums softly each time that you meet. _This one_, at least, will mourn you when you are gone.

***

Last night as the castle was settling into the cold shadows of night, you sat in the recesses of the great stairway, unable to sleep, unable to stay in your rooms. Wandering the hallways at night has always been a favorite distraction, so there was comfort in returning to a familiar activity when grief threatened to overwhelm you.

The great door to the entranceway opened a crack, and a slight caped-figure slipped through. It was not until the hood was thrown back that the identity of this nightwalker was revealed. It was Harry Potter, and suddenly, this broken heart of yours which had been so selfishly turned inward, went out to another. You knew that of all the others who will miss the old man, this one would probably suffer the greatest loss. You've known this man since he was born, and have been party to more discussions on his welfare and destiny than you would've liked. Albus had been so very keen on him, so you too adopted him long ago: have protected him, been there for him in dire straits, have come to cherish him as a dear friend.

He turned a slow circle in the center of the vaulted space, looking around and above as he did so. Catching sight of you, he slowly raised his hand in greeting. Making his way up the stairs, he stopped and stood in front of you. The green eyes were filled with concern, and you couldn't help the tears that welled up as he softly said, "I'm so sorry. Of everyone, this must be the most difficult for you. It _is_ difficult for me, but for you…I can't imagine."

Despite your best efforts, a tear trickled out, and your heart almost broke as he reached out to brush it away.

"I'll be around for the next couple of weeks. If there's anything I can do…."

You nodded solemnly in reply, and watched him as he made his way up to his rooms.

There had not always been agreement between Albus and yourself over _this_ one either, this boy. You'd thought that Harry deserved the cold, sober truth long before he'd been given it. But regardless of how the child had been handled, you'd watched with grim satisfaction, not too many years ago, when the boy had met his destiny on the field in front of the castle. Ability and fate had come together in this boy, and in one earth-shaking moment, the evil of your time had been finally brought to his knees and chased into oblivion. In all the pandemonium that ensued, the boy had taken a moment to look around to find you, and catching your eyes, had grinned and pumped his arm in victory.

That evening after the castle had settled down, you had spent the rest of the night with the Headmaster. He'd toasted your contributions and investment in the boy, and you'd glowed in pleasure and satisfaction at this recognition. Praise from Albus himself was something you tucked deep inside yourself, to save it for the gray, rainy days when your spirits needed a boost.

***

You have decided that this will be your last day. There is little to do to prepare, but knowing that time is short drives you out of your rooms. People have begun to arrive for the funeral, the carriages from Hogsmeade lined up in the drive, while the road up from the town is clotted with those who have decided to walk. A great feast is being laid out in the Great Hall, the meal to take place after the service outside. Albus had been most adamant on that point—outside, with the green grass and the blue sky setting the stage for this final farewell.

Wandering about the castle, you are relieved that there is really nothing further to be done. The distinctive whine of the bagpipers wafts through the entranceway doors, and as if summoned by the sound, the guests begin to drift down to the lawn where hundreds of chairs have been placed for the mourners.

You snort as you think of this. Albus Dumbledore had strictly forbidden mourning of any kind. You and he had shared common ground when it came to beliefs about life beyond this time and space. At his bedside shortly before he died, you were able to once again give him the gentle reassurance that death is a doorway, and that he should have nothing to fear from it.

"I don't doubt it, you know," he'd told you. "I've known the truth of it all my long life. Strange, that just when I'm about to step across, there's this faintest twinge of doubt. Last minute jitters, I suppose." The old man had smiled at you fondly, then said, "Once again, my dear friend, you knew exactly what I needed. Have I ever told you how much I treasure our friendship?"

Yes, he'd told you many times, but this was his final goodbye. As you could not hold back the tears, he'd chided you, "Although it's touching to see how much you'll miss me, you must promise me that your mourning time will be brief—otherwise I'll worry about you."

So, you gave your promise, because it was what Albus Dumbledore had needed.

The castle is slowly being deserted as everyone makes their way to the lower lawn. You watch as the small, wooden coffin is carried to the forefront, the bagpipes wailing in the background. The crowd stands to its feet as the procession passes by, this last token of respect only natural. You laugh to yourself as you watch, knowing how Albus always enjoyed a good spectacle.

The crowd sits and waits for the ceremony to begin. As the pipes finally fall silent, something settles in your spirit. It is time.

Deciding _how_ to do this today has been fairly effortless. The hard part had been deciding to do it at all. No, the technicalities of _how_ to carry it off had been easy, only a few minor details to be worked out.

You must make your way up to the parapets, but on the way you cannot resist one last look at his office where you'd loved this man and been loved in return. A well-kept secret, the depths of your relationship were known only to the Potions Master and the Boy Who Lived.

Up and upward, and here you are out on the uppermost tower, making your way over to the edge of the parapets. Balancing yourself against the rail, you can look down on the proceedings below. Someone has cast a _Sonoros_ and is delivering a eulogy—some Ministry type, probably. You listen in disgust as this man you've never once seen darken the Headmaster's door spouts out words like "courageous…innovative…and humanitarian." There is some polite clapping as the man takes his seat.

Some might say, in years to come, that what you are about to do, especially the choosing of this particular moment in which to do it, was intensely selfish. Selfish because this was meant to be Albus Dumbledore's day, a day which the future could look back on and simply say, "Yes, that was the day we said goodbye to Albus Dumbledore." But no, because of what you are about to do, their remembrance of it will be considerably altered.

As you gaze down on the panorama, Severus has just completed his tribute, and there is no further movement from the crowd. All the speeches have been said, and now a respectful silence has blanketed the mourners as they mull over their memories of the man.

This moment of silence will become _your_ moment, and you step up onto the parapet wall to make it so. Lifting your face, you reach skyward, preparing to give your own tribute to the beloved old man with whom your heart truly beat as one.

Taking a deep breath, you throw back your head and…_sing_. You sing your eulogy in honor of him whom you loved. The melody is haunting: piercing, lamenting, ethereal. You sing out your all, not caring that every mourner has shifted to watch you in shock. As you wail towards the crescendo, you push off from the stone shelf, and drop precipitously, the ground rushing up to meet you, until that moment when a last lateral arabesque of _wings_ sends you skyward again.

"My final fugue," you think to yourself as you bank ever so slightly to circle back around the crowd.

And still the song goes on, earsplitting at intervals, but then so soft that only you can hear it strumming deep within your breast. The crowd is on their feet, turning as one as you coast in ever narrowing circles around them. Some of the children are pointing, and for some reason many in the crowd are applauding.

You have made your winged circles so tight now that you gracefully spiral down to light atop the old man's bier. You perch there for a moment as you soulfully work your song to its end. Harry and Severus are standing there in the front row not ten feet away, their arms linked in each other's as they watch you. You are gratified by the tears on their cheeks and the smiles of affirmation they send your way as the last lilting note dies in your throat.

This is a burning day. _The_ burning day. It is a phoenix's prerogative, whatever his reasons, to have a final one and be done with it. It is sung, in legend and lore known only to the phoenix, that the choice to burn finally, _irrevocably_, with no possibility or intention of rebirth, is Deep Magic that can confer that rebirth to another. It is not a sure thing, the success of it, but it is _your_ choice, _your_ hope, to this day impart your life to another.

As you feel the heat, the burning fire, begin to smolder within in you, you lower your head and cover it for the final time with your weary, crimson wings.

Then at the last edge of consciousness, you fervently _hope_ that the legend is true. You focus your mind…your soul…your spirit…on the only one worthy of your gift…your sacrifice…your burning…_Albus_.

 

FIN


End file.
